


Jealousy Becomes You

by releasetheglitch



Series: When We Start [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: (I wish there was actually exhibitionism but that's just a little bit unlikely), Aftercare, BDSM, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mentions of exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scary agent man gets grumpy when someone tries to seduce his Quartermaster. Scary agent man shags Quartermaster into the mattress while sharing his very exhibitionist fantasies. Practically textbook, at this point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealousy Becomes You

**Author's Note:**

> 3XKMariana requested: Can you write something like James getting jealous and very possessive and going home with Q and teach Q who he belongs with but he gets a little to rough and Q gets a little hurt but they stay good in the end. 
> 
> Sorry this installment took so long! College is stressful and not very conducive to writing porn, but I got it out in the end :D

Q paused when he walked into his office and saw the lavish bouquet of flowers on his desk. As far as he knew, it wasn't a special occasion. Not his birthday, not their anniversary—of their first date, first time making love, or the day James collared him.

"R, was a security scan completed on these?" he called sharply.

The young woman barely glanced over at him, absorbed as she was on the circuitboard she was soldering together. "Hmm? Oh yeah. Don't worry about it, boss. We checked and there's no sign of explosives or poison. Besides, aren't they from double-oh seven?"

Q frowned, taking note of the lack of a card. "I'm not sure. There's no name attached to it."

R seemed unconcerned, brushing a handful of spiky bangs back as she dug through the workbench for a cluster of colourful wires. "No one else would be dumb enough to try to woo you. Your husband practically turns into a caveman brandishing a club whenever someone even touches you."

"Excuse me. I would think that my tech is more advanced than a _club._ " Q sniffed, affronted, stroking his newly modified 12 gauge double-barreled shotgun with 99.999% stabilizing adjustment accuracy. _Club, indeed._

But he did leave the flowers on his desk, carding his fingers through the large, plush petals and smiling at the exotic scent. They weren't very practical, but who would've known that James Bond had his romantic side as well?

As per usual when he wasn't out in the field, James eventually made his way down to Q branch, seemingly oblivious to the way the minions' heads shot up at the sound of his arrival. Like a swarm of confused owls. They would never truly be used to the predator in their midst, no matter how long it's been since James first snogged the Quartermaster in the middle of the bullpen and nearly caused a branch-wide panic spree.

Q was the only one who beamed at the sound of his lover's footsteps, sure that the man was here to reap the rewards of his gift. He looked up from his tablet, words of thanks ready for the man, only to falter at the dark look in his eyes.

A dark look that was currently being directed towards the flowers.

"Who gave those to you?" Bond demanded, before Q could ask him what his problem was.

Q blinked at that, confused. "Aren't they from you?"

Bond looked thunderous, and Q would swear the man was actually considering dismembering the flowers in an effigy of cruel and unusual torture. "No."

"Oh. I see. That's rather vexing."

His efficient mind quickly ran through a list of possibilities. Perhaps R's scan had failed, and the flowers would expel a cloud of deadly neurotoxin and kill both him and Bond nearly instantaneously. An elegant assassination attempt designed to prey on his flair for vanity. Perhaps Bond had, indeed, delivered the flowers to him and this was all a very elaborate scheme to instigate a bout of rough sex over his desk. Perhaps it was even Trevelyan and his bizarre sense of humour, trying to get a rise out of James because they're both bloody children at the best of times.

But he had to admit, there was one explanation that was more likely than all the others.

Someone was trying to, for lack of a better word, seduce him.

"Oi,  Porter!" he shouted, pushing past the tense line of Bond's body and sticking his head out. "Happy birthday. Sincerest felicitations and all that." He grabbed the bouquet (they _were_ rather lovely flowers, a part of his mind thought mournfully) before tossing the lot at the man.

Porter, a flabby, sweaty, middle-aged man who Q suspected of having a fetish for sweater vests, gaped at him mindlessly. Really, were all his minions this slow to react? God save them from the day an agent turned rogue and took them all out like a fox in a warren of rabbits. "It's not my birthday," he managed weakly.

"Oh, that's a shame." Q shut the door and raised an eyebrow at the sulking agent facing him with his arms crossed. "Well? That's that. You can stop pouting now."

"You shouldn't have done that. I could have taken those flowers down to forensics and have them dust for fingerprints," James grumbled, flexing his calloused hands menacingly, as if imagining a neck to be crushed.

Q shut down that train of thought before it could fully form. As problematic as his hygiene was, Porter was one of his best security analysts, and Q would prefer if he didn't end up with three months of leave for a nervous breakdown after an Assault à la Double-Oh Agent. "I assure you, if I ever find out who the culprit is I'll ruin their credit rating. Never mind that, what did you come down here for?" He delivered the last words in a warm drawl, infusing just a hint of suggestion into the syllables.

It was laughably easy to distract James when sex was involved. The man had a one-track mind. Well, two-tracks: sex and killing, but no one was about to kill Q any time soon, thank you very much. "I'm glad you asked," he grinned rakishly. "I'm of the opinion that my workout routine needs to be...changed up a bit. Care to offer some suggestions?"

Q feigned indifference, although he could already feel the arousal pooling at the base of his groin. Still, he was waiting for double-oh four to make contact from a time-sensitive op in Spain, and directing a mission with a cock up his arse was...unprofessional, to say the least. "I’m hardly your personal trainer—no, don’t you dare,” he sighed when Bond smirked and opened his mouth, no doubt to make a cringe-worthy joke. “Stay out of my branch for the next three hours and I could be persuaded to give some demonstrations on flexibility in one of the unused storage rooms," he offered, trying not to let his agent's possessive gaze weaken his resolve.

"Three hours?" James teased, faking disbelief. "Never say I'm incapable of making sacrifices for the sake of this relationship."

Rolling his eyes, Q swatted him with one of the multitudes of reports that seemed to multiply daily in his office. “Out, double-oh seven. Or the next gun you get from me will be programmed to blow up in your face.”

James lifted his eyebrows. “Threatening to sabotage the weapon of one of Her Majesty’s loyal employees? I should punish you for that.” To Q’s exasperation, he took his time leaving, strolling so leisurely that Q’s hand twitched toward the shotgun on his desk.

"Oh, yes. Punish me, sir. Punish me long and hard with your cock," Q quipped in a dry voice, pleased despite himself when Bond burst out in incredulous laughter.

"Christ, Q. That's bloody awful."

"Yes, but you love me anyway."

And that should have been the end of it.

Except a week later, a new present appeared on Q’s desk. A box of cupcakes that smelled of lavender, from London’s finest patisserie.

Thankfully, James was halfway across the world and Q could dispose of them discretely, without harassment from his favourite jealous lug. Not so thankfully, he found the tin of Moroccan mint tea, and the platinum cufflinks (“they don’t even explode,” Q grumbled to no avail, as Bond gave a thorough demonstration of how he had come to earn his marksmanship scores).

The one upside to the whole, ridiculous situation was that, like a child scribbling their name in garish colours all over their favourite toys, James felt the need to mark his territory in the face of this unknown threat.

“ _Mine,_ ” he’d whisper darkly, pounding into Q with harsh thrusts that shook the bed and made him cry out brokenly, trapped beneath the unyielding lines of James’ body and unable to do anything but take it.

“Yours, yours, sir,” Q moaned, trying as best as he could to shove himself deeper onto his lover’s cock. “Want you to leave bruises all over me—show everyone who I belong to, please—” his ragged cries cut off with a harsh hiss as Bond slid two fingers under the heated leather of his collar and _tugged_ , pulling Q’s head back where it was buried in a mound of pillows and baring his needy whines and whimpers to the night air. The worn leather cut off most of his air supply, leaving Q gasping with shallow, raspy breaths.

James was relentless, one hand still gripping Q’s collar tightly while the other dug into the meat of his thigh, pulling his legs so far apart that Q suspected that if he looked down he’d have a perfect view of the way his hole clung to Bond’s cock, loving the sweet abuse. “Little slut.” How Bond could make even the most degrading slurs sound like a caress, Q would never fully understand. “I want to come all over your face, Q,” he continued, and Q’s heart stuttered. James usually preferred to let Q do the talking during sex, liked to hear him plead for all the depraved things James wanted to do to him, so this was—

“Just imagine it, Q. All that pearly white fluid against your pale skin. And I wouldn’t let you wash it off. You’d have to go into work the next morning with my cum on full display to everyone. Let them see how I own you. How utterly you belong to me.”

Fuck. Q almost came right there and then, permission be buggered. He’d suspected Bond of having an exhibitionism kink, but this—he could picture it in his mind, his clothes neat and pristine, tie done up smartly, shoes shining, face splattered with Bond’s cum and perhaps a few strands of his hair matted with the stuff and oh, how everyone would whisper behind his back. The humiliation of it all would be delicious.

“And if that wasn’t a clear enough message, I’d take you in the middle of your branch. Not even over your desk, just right there on the floor like a common whore.” Q keened, the edges of his vision beginning to blur as Bond’s grip on his collar tightened a notch. “I want everyone to hear how their fearless leader begs for a cock. You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” Yes, yes, he would. Right now he’d agree to anything. “Come on, Q. Let me hear you beg.”

“Sir, please, want…” Q trailed off, trying to gather his senses. “Wanna be fucked in front of ever’one, let ‘em see—” he swallowed, abused throat burning painfully. “my arse, opening up for you, only you…”

James cut in smoothly, taking over for Q’s rapidly deteriorating voice. “Yes, you’ve got such a sweet little hole, love. It swallows up whatever I give it so beautifully.” Q gave a happy little wiggle at that, loving the praise, as obscene and filthy as it was, and James laughed, continuing in a thoughtful voice. “In fact, before I shagged you, I’d plug you up with ginger first. Your audience would love that, wouldn’t they? You dance and whimper so prettily under the burn. How do you think they’ll react, to see their boss acting so wantonly?”

Shit. Shit. He couldn’t do it anymore. Never mind how much he wanted to hear the rest of James’ fantasy, his cock was about to explode, and he was dizzy with oxygen deprivation. “Now, sir, please I’ve gotta—”

“Come, Q.” A firm hand tugging at his cock, finally, the oxygen flowing back into his straining lungs. Too much. Too much. White lights burst against his eyelids and someone was screaming. Was that him? He couldn’t tell anymore.

The scene he awoke to when he finally stirred again was a familiar one. James seemed fond of wrapping him up like a lumpy burrito, surrounded by so many pillows that the bed rather resembled a strange bird’s nest. With a burrito in the center instead of birds, of course, and gods he was still a touch out of it, wasn’t he? Q tried to talk, and winced, lifting a hand to his throat gingerly.

“Here, drink this.” A cup was lifted to his mouth, and Q sipped at it in a daze. The hot liquid soothed him, as did the muscled agent cuddled against his side.

“That wasn’t too much, was it?” James asked, guarded voice betraying slivers of worry as he dabbed some kind of salve on Q’s neck. “You were out for a while. I was afraid…”

To be honest, it was right there on the edge of _too much_. If James had pulled any harder, or made him wait any longer, Q would have safeworded. But, no, it was good. Incredible, even. But that was too many words, and Q was a lazy creature after sex who scorned the inefficiencies of spoken language, so instead, he traced a “10/10” across James’ skin.

James huffed, relaxing. “Glad you approve.”

And it was good. Especially when Q showed up to work in a shirt that did nothing to hide his new collection of bruises and hickies, and the unwanted stream of presents finally stopped. James strutted around MI6 like a smug, well-fed wolf, so obviously self-satisfied that M took one look at him and sent him on the next flight out of Heathrow.

(Q quickly forgot about the entire affair, although he did wonder why one of his most vocal advocates in the finance department suddenly stopped approving his outlandish funding requests.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Make sure you leave me a note if there's anything else you want to see from this verse (or if you just have a fic request in general)! I'm not a super speedy writer, but I'll do my best :)


End file.
